


on the other side (of almost everything)

by sarcangel



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, Other, the gender-fluid cryptid nessie ship fic you never wanted or needed in your life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-12
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-04-22 00:50:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14297172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcangel/pseuds/sarcangel
Summary: “There’s a story me ma used to tell, about how I was made,” Bressie says, running his fingers up and down Niall’s arm.  “Guess she was what we’d call a witch, these days. But back then, she was just a woman who lived in the forest; strange, but folk mostly left her alone, unless they needed healing or helping of one kind or another.  The way she told it to me, she was down by the loch, digging for roots and bits of shell. And there by the shore, she found a piece of bone.” Niall can feel him start to shrug, the muscles gathering and relaxing under his cheekbone.  “Black and worn, not like anything she’d seen before, she said.  So she took it home, and kept it for a while, wondering. And one night, she woke up, and knew what to do.”“What did she do?” Niall asks; he’s so full of conflicting feelings - awe, pity, curiosity, love - he thinks he might explode.





	on the other side (of almost everything)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tmeachhh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tmeachhh/gifts), [alexenglish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexenglish/gifts).



> for my favorite, real-life cryptids, both of whom could have written this better. <3

“Day nine,” Niall says into his phone.  “Camp has been established on the western shore near Invermoriston.  Reconnaissance with locals is complete. Establishing solar power sources and motion-activated cameras at the predetermined western checkpoints today.”  It’s the last day of summer, technically, but the high today will most likely not top eleven degrees; the tourists seem to have mostly fucked off over the last week or so. Although it’s just past noon, the light slants low on the horizon, drenching everything in gold, a sharp contrast to the endless blue of the loch. He fires off the voice note to corporate, still a little amazed that access to their secure portal is uninterrupted here. Gathering the first load of cameras - twenty-seven in all to be placed this afternoon - their small solar panels tipping upward like hopeful faces, he sets off.

 

**~~~**

“Day twenty five,” he says into the pitch-black morning, scraping the sound out of the bottom of his throat. It’s fucking squally again; feels like he’s been wet and fighting a cold for weeks. He’s picked up a deep, barking cough that leaves him wrung out and exhausted. “One of the cameras on the eastern shore, near Inverfarigaig, has gone offline; no other images to report.”

There are never images to report. No photographic images. No sonar images. No infrared images. No sound waves, no actual waves, no elusive lumpy figure emerging from the waves, no swishy tail, no slimy scale. What there is to report: lots of water, peaty dark endless water; a wracking cough; his manky Tuesday jumper getting mankier each week; and now, a banjaxed camera on the whole arseing other side of the loch.  

Aforementioned camera is wedged into a rocky outcrop about two meters below where Niall is currently standing, staring unenthusiastically at his own handiwork. The solar panel is still connected, all the wires are intact, and he’s attempted a soft reboot a handful of times with absolutely no effect. He looks down at the loch; it sweeps out ahead of him, the surface pitted with rain. Even from this short height, it’s breathtaking.

“Fuck it.” He thumbs on the recording app. “Camera has been located and is unresponsive. Attempting to repair or replace.” He flips himself around and drops down onto the narrow ledge. The camera seems fine; that’s a blessing. “Come on, baby,” he croons. “Talk to me.” He presses and holds the power button, counting out the requisite thirty seconds. Nothing. Yanking the camera off the metal stake holding it in place, he starts to toss it up over the cliff edge - and then he’s overbalanced, scrambling for purchase on the slippery rock. He knows it’s no good in the millisecond before he falls, trying to arrange himself better for the inevitable collision with the water below. There’s a tearing pain in his knee and then he’s submerged; the water snatching at him like a hungry hand. He wants to swim - tries to swim - but for one third of one second all he can do is sink further down while the air is sucked out of his lungs. Fighting like hell, he breaks the surface and swims for the cliff face. His arms and legs start working again, thank Christ, but he’s so slow, now; his left knee doesn’t seem to want to work at all. He makes it back to the rocky wall and clings there for a second, shaking. Past the cliff wall, maybe twenty meters to his right, is actual shoreline.

  
Between climbing or swimming there’s no choice, really. Pushing off the rock, he starts slogging toward the shore. He’s getting closer but slowing down. His head dips below the surface one time, and then again. “Shit,” he coughs, turning himself around to float on his back for a minute to evaluate his situation. His knee is numb; his body is numb. His heart rate is slower and respiratory rate faster than they should be, respectively. He’s not at all close to the shore; chances are he’s not going to make it. His phone is waterproof and GPS enabled, so they should be able to find him and salvage the research he hasn’t yet uploaded. He laughs a little, gathering himself to make one last go. Ironic, this: never wanted to come here, never wanted this assignment, but wanted the money. And here he is, making a haymes of it while chasing a fairytale; couldn’t be a better metaphor for his whole miserable life. Out of nowhere, a spreading warmth balloons around him, scaring him more than anything so far. Something strong presses under his back, scooping him up and in. He’s cradled against a smooth cool substance, pearlescent grey and soft like skin.  He raises one numb hand to trail his fingers against it. A reptilian face curves down to look at him; it has to curve a long way to reach. He gets an impression of huge, curious brown eyes - and then his thoughts are sliding away, carrying him into darkness.

 

**~~~**

“Day 26. I’m alive.” Or close enough, although his head is likely to split open if he moves and his mouth is sour with whisky and rotting peat. The end of his nose is cold; he reaches up to scrub at his face and fumbles the phone into his sleeping bag. In the cold light of late morning, yesterday’s events seem even more impossible. “Reporting my first corporeal encounter with subject cryptid “Nessie,” ninth October, at approximately 13:43 p.m. Near the Inverfarigaig camera rig, latitude 57.282257, longitude -4.458201.” He pauses the recording for a moment to clear his throat, finding a bottle of water on the floor of the tent. “Nessie is approximately six to seven meters long from nose to tip, similar in size to a Minke whale. Neck is long and serpentine, as indicated in photographic and anecdotal records.” He stops to take another drink. “Triangular head with two possibly cartilaginous protuberances from the forehead. Skin is soft and not scaled; gray in color with slight pearlescence observed. One large fore flipper observed, second can be assumed; hind flippers may be present but not observed. Subject demonstrated advanced reasoning ability throughout the encounter, correctly identifying a swimmer in distress and transporting the swimmer to a location appropriate for recovery.” He stops the recording, his thumb hovering over “upload,” but he doesn’t go through with it.  

Pulling on his Wednesday jumper, he climbs out of the tent. It’s a bright day, of course, the sun stabbing cheerfully into his tender brain. He squints out over the water by habit - the loch is still and innocent, reflecting back the sky’s pristine blue; the trees blaze on the shoreline as fall deepens. Closer to the shore, a small pile of what looks like brown trout is heaped neatly on top of some rocks.

“Jesus.” He can feel the blood running out of his face, and sits down abruptly on the rocky ground. It’s a good sign, he knows; animals leave tributes out of friendship and a desire to provide. He’s not sure why, but a lump rises in his throat. And while there are a million things he should do this morning - file his report, fix the camera, terminate this cursed fucking contract with an elitist cryptozoology firm - instead he takes the lorry into the village.

Two hours later, he’s back out in the boat, heart smashing against his ribs.  The spoils from his village trip are spread out next to him: a huge parcel of bacon, a sack of oranges, three kinds of crisps, a stack of sandwiches. His new jumper is scratchy but warm. He settles in to wait, dozing off after a while, a combination of sun and waves and leftover hangover. He wakes up towards evening and eats a sandwich. The sun is almost gone and it’s getting colder; the biting kind that comes with night. Without warning, not even a blip of the bleeding sonar, the boat starts rocking rocking rocking. And then she’s there. She surfaces from a ways away, _ten meters_ he catalogs, not sure how he’d ever describe it: one second, there’s nothing, just the smooth surface of the loch; and the next second, there she is. First the graceful slope of her head and neck, and then the rest of her follows, big and sleek and not lumpy at all. His head swims for a second but he forces his way through it, focusing on the details. She’s an animal - what kind, he doesn’t know - but he does know animals.

She’s swimming slowly over to him, cleanly cutting through the water. Two fore flippers and two hind flippers confirmed; tail approximately four meters in length with no observable fin. Skin distinctly blue green today - an anomaly from yesterday: further observation required. In the low light, she shimmers slightly: pearlescence confirmed. She stops about a meter from the boat, more than close enough to hear the pounding of his heart; he almost checks to see if it’s shaking the boat, Jesus. If she extended her neck, he could touch her face. She doesn’t, though, just hovers nearby like she’s waiting. He tries to talk, but nothing comes out. He clears his throat and tries again.

“Hello, love,” he says, using his best animal-soothing voice. “You’re just a beauty, aren’t you?” She ducks her head a little and hums, edging closer to the boat. “There, now. There’s nothing to be scared of, just little old me. I’m called Niall, by the way,” he says, “you’ll be Nessie, then.” He holds out his shaking hand, palm up. Slowly she extends her neck, lowers her nose to his palm. “There’s a lass,” he coos. “Brought you something.” Moving slowly, he reaches his other hand into the shopping bag next to him, coming up with a sandwich. He offers it to her on his flat palm and she takes it, nuzzling at his fingers when the sandwich is gone. Piece by piece, he feeds her everything: bacon, oranges, the lot. It’s full night by the time the food’s gone. Nessie’s sidled as close to the boat as she can get, allowing him to gently stroke his hand up and down her neck.  She leans into him briefly - he forgets to breathe - before backing away, steadily sinking again below the surface of the water. He starts to ask a question, but it dies in his throat. Just before she’s fully submerged, a picture forms in his head: himself in the boat, same spot in the loch, twilight tomorrow.  He knows it’s tomorrow because he’s wearing his Thursday jumper; just as sure as he knows she put the picture there.

 

**~~~**

“Day 31. The pigmentation of her skin appears to change with the weather, although it does not directly or consistently correlate to specific weather conditions.”  Niall’s on the boat again that evening, watching a spectacular sunset, Nessie’s quiet bulk by his side. She’s a glimmering soft orange tonight, an almost perfect reflection of the waves that climb and break against her.   He doesn’t know how much she understands, but he’s pretty sure it’s everything. And he likes talking with her, has taken to making his daily reports in her company. “Likely a highly adapted form of camouflage; further study is needed to evaluate this trait.”  He stops recording. “It’s smart, though. And beautiful.” He turns to look at her directly. “She’s smart and beautiful.” He taps ‘Save Without Submitting.’ Again. There’s a limited time before it will catch up with him, but for now he can’t worry about it.  She slinks her neck down and rubs her cheek against his, a fleeting contact; he reaches up to hold her there a moment longer.

“Thank you for the sea glass, love,” he says.  “Was a nice surprise this morning, been collecting it for ages.”  She chirps a little in response, mouthing playfully at his hair. He laughs.  “Frisky. What did you get up to today, then?”

She shows him: resting, deep in the loch where almost no light reaches.  Chasing a school of Northern pike, restless boredom. Nosing through the silty bottom for small things, the odd treasures she finds and shares with him.  Then a flicker of scales, curiosity: a man’s bearded face and torso with a fish’s silver tail swimming hastily away.

“WHAT,” Niall screeches, drawing back to stare up at her.  She looks back at him for a second before her neck starts to quiver, her throat hissing out a staccato rhythm.  He throws his head back, laughing himself. “You brat, can’t believe you’re slagging me. I actually believed you.”

Warmth creeps up around him, a soft cocoon; he flushes and looks away.

 

**~~~**

“Day...37,” he says, checking his phone to be sure. “Barely.” It’s just after midnight, he’s been pulled from a hard sleep by something, he doesn’t know what. All the hair on his body is standing on end. Holding himself still, he hears it: plaintive wailing drifting off the water, sweet and sad enough to make his throat ache. Pulling on an extra jumper and a hat, he walks up to the trailer to retrieve his guitar. He settles just beyond the water’s reach and begins playing; from the shore, he can see her shadowy bulk growing closer. Their voices blend together, it’s eerie and unearthly and absolutely beautiful. An image forms in his head: him in the boat, in the loch, in the night. It’s as clear as saying, “Come here.” God help him, he does it; starts up the boat and motors over.

“Hey, now,” he says when he reaches her.  Nessie’s skin is flat black tonight, no hint of iridescence. She steers close and tucks her face into his shoulder, whuffing against the soft wool there. He stays quiet, stroking her neck for a long time. “Want to talk about it?” he asks. It’s a few more minutes before anything happens, but then the images start coming, slow at first: a face, soft and no detail anymore. Worn thin by memory. A woman, golden hair and kind eyes. Getting older, older; gone.

Then faster: many summers pass. The castle is built; people move in. She’s spotted by an archer. Blood spreads through the water. A lone woman finds her fetched up near the shore and tends to her. There are many versions of the woman that summer, carrying loaves of bread or fresh eggs, singing softly while she does the washing or dips her feet into the lake. Then there’s nothing. Just empty shore and sorrow, bitter snow.

Nessie’s moving fast now, flicking through seasons like playing cards. More summers pass; hundreds. It’s always the same - swimming, resting, quiet fish and quiet plants. Trees grow and fall. Ducks come and raise their families, returning year after year until they don’t. Sometimes a deer or bear wanders past. People show up now, more and more - looking, boating, bringing strange devices. The pictures change, they feel darker, more dense. She spends her days under the water, nights above. She’s alone, always. Sometimes she calls, but no one comes. The images slow again. He sees himself: small and scared in his little boat, feeding her bacon with an incredulous smile. Then there’s no boat, no tent, just aching vacant shore. The pictures stop.

“I’m sorry,” he says, not sure who he’s trying to comfort. Looping his arm around her neck, he pulls her close, leans his wet face against hers. “I don’t...I’m sorry. I’m here, now. I’m here.”

 

**~~~**

“Day 45. Who even fecking knows what time it is,” he says, rolling out of the sleeping bag. He slept like absolute shit last night, off the boat for once - woke up rock hard at the crack of dawn, had a wank, and went back to sleep. If he weren’t so bleeding behind in his work, he’d bunk off for the day. At the least, he needs to make a report or they may well end his contract anyway.  

Something restless is itching through his blood. Maybe Callum from the pub will be up for a friendly shag. He needs food and a few other supplies, anyway; if he makes good time on everything else, he can manage a trip in. Checking his watch, he heads for the lorry. “2 p.m. Repositioning motion-activated cameras to the southwest portion of the loch. Setting new triangulation criteria for infrared sensors. Attempting another sonar sweep of the north west portion, nearest Drumnadrochit.”

He slips back out on the loch a few hours later, still in a funk that an afternoon pint and half-assed snog couldn’t dispel.  He begged off before things could get farther than a grope with Callum; the whole thing was unsettling.When he approaches their usual spot, Nessie’s waiting already, glimmering pine green on the water; it feels like he’s seeing clearly for the first time all day.  She swims around the boat in dizzying circles, kicking up enough wake to make him stumble.

“Hey, now,” he says, holding up his hands in protest **.  “** Got us something at the shop today.”  He reaches down carefully to pick up the bag by his feet. She zooms closer, rippling blue; _curiosity_ , he catalogs, involuntarily.  He brings out the books, first; three paperback volumes he picked up at the gift store.

“Thought we could read these,” he explains. “Didn’t know what you might like, so I grabbed us a couple of options.”  He glances over at her, stock still next to the boat, giving him nothing; like a figure carved of glass.  He reaches back into tote, brings out the last item. Her nose is in his hand almost before he can open the package of crisps.

“There, now.  Back on track,” he pats her neck. “Here’s our options.” He holds up the first book, so she can see the cover.  “Got your basic bodice-ripper, here,” he says, reading from the back. “ _‘She may have been caught in a scandal with society’s favorite rogue, but how can she marry him when it means losing herself?_ ’” He sets it down and picks up the next one.  “I’m partial to this one, meself,” he says. “ _‘Dive into the dark and turbulent domain of Nessie, the world’s most supernatural monster._ ’” On the cover, a slender neck rises from the water. “No? Alright. Last option it is, then. Magical realism, the lady at the shop called it.”  He settles into the seat, kicking his feet up while she slips closer and lowers her head onto the deck. “Here we go. _‘Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendias was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice...’”_

 

**~~~**

He wakes up with the boat lurching beneath him.  It’s pitch black; the new moon blank in the dark sky.  He sits up, blinking; there’s Nessie, gleaming in the water behind the boat, pushing him steadily to shore.  

“Oi,” he says, through a huge yawn.  “What’s the story?” The boat is moving fast enough to cut a wake through the waves; the wind is cold against his back.

When the boat butts up against the shore, she swims in as well.  Niall jumps down, sluggish with sleep and confusion. Nessie wriggles for a second against the shore and then starts to...change, all shimmery and liquid.  The gloop condenses and swirls, hard to look at directly. When he opens his eyes, he thinks he may have gone mad. From the shivering air steps a tall man, shoulders wide and flecked with water, skin as smooth as the lake itself.  He shudders a little, stepping into the camp light.

“Oh my god, I’m sorry, you must be freezing,” Niall shakes off his paralysis and flings himself into the tent, fetching a pair of joggers and the sleeping bag.  Coming out, he shoves it all into the man’s hands, stepping back quickly; he’s got the same liquid brown eyes as Nessie, Niall notices, tamping down on panic. If the probability of his heart actually exploding wasn’t a statistical impossibility, he’d have real concern.

“Niall,” the man says, with Nessie’s quiet hissing laugh, dropping the sleeping bag on the ground and bending to pull on the joggers.  “Calm down, you numpty. ‘S only me.” His accent is strange, Scottish and something wilder. The joggers just fit, by some minor miracle.  The man - Niall can’t call him Nessie for some reason - straightens, frowning slightly at the air; Niall feels a familiar warmth creep up and balloon around them.  More than anything, that starts to settle him. He may not know this face, but he trusts it.

“Are you really…?” Niall asks, stepping closer; the water droplets linger on his chest, glinting in the incandescent light.  Niall’s fingers want to touch him, sweep through the condensation there.

“Aye, really,” he says, holding out his hand slowly, palm up.  Niall recognizes the trick. And then he can move, closing the gap between them, winding his arms around the man’s thick rib cage.  Strong arms surround him, squeezing gently; he feels big hands stroking up and down his back, rifling his hair in a way that’s both totally familiar and totally strange.  Niall draws back for a second, reluctantly.

“You’re Nessie,” Niall says, looking up into the strange face with familiar eyes; those eyes crinkle down at him, terribly amused.  “I’m not...just tell me that I’ve not completely gone round the bend.”

“Ye haven’t,” he says, smiling halfways.  “In this...shape, your folk cry me Bressie, usually.  Don’t mind either way, but.” He shrugs, reaching out to trace Niall’s eyebrow.

“Bressie,” Niall tries it out, stepping closer again, drawn into his touch like a magnetic field.  He wants...he doesn’t know what he wants, but he’s thrumming with it.

“Can’t remember where it came from, it’s what the villagers have always called me.”  Bressie frowns again, eyes somewhere else for a second. He touches Bressie’s elbow and gets gathered back up, Bressie sighing so deeply it moves them both.    

“Do they...know about you then?  The villagers?” he asks, muffled against Bressie’s chest, skin still damp against Niall’s cheek.  His heartbeat is strong, reassuring as Niall waits for the answer. He knows it’s weird, this is weird; but Bressie’s touching his neck, running his fingers down his arms, back up through his hair, a dried up plant reaching for rain.  And that restlessness is back, sparking down his veins - he can’t get enough. Maybe they’re both dried up; maybe they’re both the rain.

“Nah.  I pick different towns, now, when I’m…” he searches for the word, dipping his hands lower on Niall’s back; digging into the muscle and softness there.  “Changed. They just think I’m a traveler **,** I guess.  I’ve met a few people over the years, enough to share a pint,” he dips his hands lower still, pulling Niall fractionally closer, “or a bed, when I’m hard up.”

“Are you now?”  Niall asks, not looking up.  All that want is coalescing fast; his heart is racing as he rocks himself slowly up against Bressie.  “Hard up, I mean?”

“Don’t have to be.”  Bressie puts his hand on Niall’s jaw, tilting his face up.  “I want ye,” he says, running his thumb across Niall’s lower lip.  “Been wanting ye, if that’s all right.” Niall licks his lips, chasing Bressie’s touch; he somehow nods.  Then Bressie’s mouth is on him, and the thoughts skate right out of his head.

It starts soft but gets filthy fast.  Niall opens his mouth and then Bressie’s everywhere, maybe it’s part of his magic - nipping at his lower lip, sucking his tongue, running his teeth down the side of his neck.  He groans and stretches up on his tiptoes; it feels so fucking good but he needs more. When Bressie grabs his arse and helps him grind against his thigh, he almost blacks out from all the blood rushing south.He pushes back for a second while Bressie sucks on his neck, reaching down to pull his jumper off roughly.  

“Careful,” Bressie says, breathing hard, “I like that one.”

“Hope so, love,” Niall says, shucking it off finally and looking at Bressie; his chest is heaving slightly and his hair’s a mess.  “Picked it for you.” Bressie hooks his fingers into Niall’s waistband, hauling him in to kiss him deeply; then pulls them down to the ground.  Knee to knee, they’re a little closer in height; Niall’s got a better angle to push their hips together.

“God,” he groans, tracing the muscles in Bressie’s back.  He laughs against Niall’s throat and tips them over onto the sleeping bag, taking a minute to get their clothes off the rest of the way.  Bressie hovers over him, around him; he’s cool and sleek and firm and smells like water, rippling over Niall like a boneless thing, hands and tongue everywhere - but the inside of his mouth is warm when he swallows Niall's prick, hands pressed firmly on his hips, holding him down while he pants and arches and cries out sharply.  Each individual detail is overwhelming. The beautiful man he knows, but doesn’t. Stars surging like tiny echoes overhead. Bressie’s tongue on his dick. His whole body singing. Cold night air brushing in around them. Put together, it’s all too much. He claws at Bressie’s shoulders a little desperately, and he pulls off right as it hits him, working him through it.

It takes a minute until Niall’s sure that he’s not dead.  He falls back into himself when Bressie starts planting kisses up the side of his ribcage, nuzzling his face against Niall’s a second later for a long kiss.  Even in his half-dazed state, Niall can feel Bressie hard against the side of his leg.

“Do you,” he starts to shift onto his side, reaching down; Bressie holds him in place with a palm on his chest.  He dips his finger in the mess on Niall’s stomach, kissing the corner of his mouth, his cheekbone. Then his hand moves lower; Niall spreads his legs automatically.

“Can I?” he asks, circling Niall’s rim with his slicked-up finger.  Niall exhales and nods, squeezing his eyes shut for a second. And it starts all over again, somehow: the steady press of Bressie’s fingers turning into the hungry crush of their bodies.  Bressie’s breath is harsh in his ear, he’s murmuring in a language Niall’s never heard before; and the angle is just right and his dick is trapped between them and pretty soon he’s clutching Bressie’s back and they’re both shouting into the night.

They must have dozed off, because Niall wakes up cold, Bressie still covering him like a blanket.  Trying not to stir him, he grabs his pants and fishes the phone out of his pocket, awkwardly lining up a picture of Bressie’s sleeping face pressed into his shoulder.  It’s shit lighting and a shit angle, but he takes the photo anyway. Bressie stirs against him, then, lifting his head to plant a kiss on Niall’s jaw.

“Day 54,” he says, running his fingers through Bressie’s hair.  “Subject is extremely vocal during sex, both verbally and nonverbally.  Origin of spoken language could not be determined.” Bressie brushes his mouth back and forth against Niall’s collarbone; it tickles.  “Subject also has an exceptional knob and appears to be very skilled in its usage. Further study is required to clarify that point.” Bressie rolls off of him; it’s near freezing for a second until the warmth comes back.  “Jesus, warn a bloke,” he says, reaching over to flick him in the stomach. “Feel dumb that I’ve been calling you lass, by the way. Since you’re, you know…” He waves his hand towards Bressie’s pelvic area. Bressie looks at him for a long second.

“I’ve just changed from a mythical beast into a person right in front of ye, loved ye to boot, and that’s what you’re worrying on?”  He laughs for a long time, a big human laugh that makes Niall want to laugh, too. “You’re a strange one.”  Bressie leans in to kiss him, biting at his lower lip in a way that shoots through his bones. “Over the years, I’ve been shot at, photographed, netted, hunted.  But no one’s ever read me books and worried what to call me.” He smiles, then, right into Niall’s eyes.“But ‘m both, near as I can tell.  When I’m her, I’m...her. When I’m me, I’m me.”  He shrugs.

“I’m glad you’re you,” Niall says, brushing his fingers over Bressie’s face.  “I’m glad you’re all of you.”

 

**~~~**

Niall wakes up mid-day, pleasantly sore, to an empty tent. Outside, there’s a pile of oddities at the edge of the shore: a rusty bicycle, a chunk of petrified wood, a cracked plastic spatula. Out of habit, he calculates the hours until sundown, only a little freaked out when he realizes how long he’s been planning his days that way. Best not to dwell on it. But there is work to do, after all - he’s got three emails from corporate, requesting updated data; he can’t afford to moon about all day.  

Up in the trailer, he showers and goes through his photos. He’s taken a few over the last several weeks, any one of which could make him rich and destroy Nessie’s already jeopardized existence. The most damaging, he prints to keep: catching the last part of sunset, Nessie’s full profile dark against the blazing sky. Their selfie from two weeks ago; he's almost embarrassed by how fucking fond he looks in it, didn’t realize it in the moment. And last night, Bressie’s sleeping face, unbearably intimate. He deletes the photos off his phone and his laptop as soon as they’re printed. He’s got a few deliberately inconclusive photos for upload to the secure site - is it a wave or a humped back? A downed tree branch or an arching neck?

He loads up the boat early, never so glad for the short November days in northern Scotland. Nessie must be antsy, too, because he gets there and she’s already surfacing. She chirps and flushes all the way down her body - gold at her nose, a deep rose at her tail, spreading from each end to swirl spectacularly at her middle. His breath catches for a second; she’s lovely.

“Sweetheart,” he says, voice thick in his throat.  “You can’t. Someone could see you.” She swims over to him, a huge exotic flower in bloom on the surface of the water. He gets an image of the village burning down, while he and Nessie watch from the water. It’s a clear message, all right. She’s there, finally, nudging her face against him. He wraps an arm around her neck. “Howya, love? Missed you this morning. Missed you all day, really.”

Nessie gives him another picture: mostly sleeping, deep in the water; half-heartedly chasing an eel.

“Lazybones.” He almost chokes when she sends the next image: himself, opening his trousers and wanking in the boat so she can watch. He groans, going hot in the face.

“Cheeky. Not happening, though.” She bites his ear, gently. He grabs an envelope off the seat of the boat, drawing out the pictures that he printed earlier. “Brought you something, actually. Nothing special, but…” He turns around, so she can look over his shoulder, holding up the first picture, the sunset. “Not sure if you’ve ever seen yourself before, just wanted you to…” he turns to look at her, shrugging. “Dunno, see what I see, I guess.”

She rests her cheek on top of his head, sends another image: the long night ahead of them, full of promise.

 

**~~~**

“Day 63. Subject appears to be mocking me for engaging in the human hunting tradition known as fishing.” He picked up a fishing pole on his last trip into town, thinking it would be funny, and it has been a source of great amusement for Nessie. He’s had nothing more than a few nibbles on the line, while she’s brought in several assorted fish. She drops her latest catch - a gigantic sturgeon - on the boat deck, directly in front of where he is lighting the tiny camp stove.

“Show off,” he says, grunting and almost falling as he heaves it up and throws it back in the lake. “Bit too big for the pan, love.” She dives back under in obvious amusement. The stove is likely a terrible idea, but he’s promised her a proper Irish dish and he’s dead set on frying up boxty with fresh fish, fire hazard be damned.

He burns his fingers flipping the potato cakes ( _Should have brought that bleeding spatula you left me)_ , and burns his tongue on his first bite of fish, but it’s worth it. They eat it all, and it feels weirdly indulgent - not exactly romantic, but real; it suits him down to the ground.

“Oi, lass, now that we’re done. Need you to help me with something.” She moves in closer with a tilt to her head that’s getting familiar. “Not like that, Jesus. You’ve a one-track mind. Just hoping you can help me with my actual job, maybe.”  He points to the sonar radar at the back of the boat. “I need to try to get some kind of sonar image to send in.” She seems amenable, bobbing up and down in the water, rippling light green up the column of her throat.

“But it can’t be too good,” he says. “Maybe, like, the corner of a flipper or the end of your tail or something. Don’t want them breathing down your neck, do I?” She dives, then, going under the boat - eventually deep enough that her magicked warmth dissipates.

“Holy shit,” he says, once the image clarifies. Most of the time, the majority of her body is obscured by the water; it’s easy to forget how gigantic she truly is. The sonar shows every detail, it’s too much - he’ll have to go in and delete the record. But for now, the scientist part of him can’t tear himself away; if he were anyone else, he’d be screaming at the stars in joy and disbelief. She starts swimming around, darting from one side of the radar’s range to the other; then she disappears completely. It’s mad - one moment she’s there, fully real - and then it’s like she’s blinked out of existence. He waits for a few long, silent minutes for her to reappear, stomach sinking further with each minute. Just as he’s leaning over the boat - why, he doesn’t know, he’ll never see her in the black water - she pops back up right next to him, scaring the shit out of him.

“For fuck’s sake,” he says, when he can breathe again. “You put the heart crossways in me, you brat.” He reaches out an arm.  “C’mere, you. I was worried.”

 

**~~~**

“Day 71. It’s been bucketing down all day.” There’s been no point in leaving camp; the rain has literally been falling in sheets since he woke up midday. He’s working in the trailer, slicing last week’s sonar project into smaller, more unrecognizable images. “Sonar imaging has resulted in potential findings. While inconclusive, certain images suggest the presence of a flipper; one image in particular resembles the long tail the subject is reputed to have.” Flicking through his pictures, he finds one grainy and ambiguous enough to upload. “Attached photo believed to be the posterior view of one of two spinal humps.” Pressing upload, he sighs and stretches; it’s so overcast, maybe he can meet Nessie early, today - no point in cracking on when there’s nothing to crack. There can’t be anyone about, anyway.

By three p.m. he’s given up on any pretense of productivity, perched under the meager canopy on the boat, while rain lashes the surface of the water. Nessie’s not bothered by the rain, swimming lazily in slow circles around the boat while he fiddles with the radio. His fingers are too stiff and cold to manage playing anything himself, but it’s the kind of weather that begs for music, some kind of accompaniment to the steady beat of rain.

“What do you think, love?” he asks, finally getting the bluetooth to work. “Something mellow? Rock and roll?” She gives the cryptid equivalent of a shrug; dealer’s choice. He queues it up, leaning back as best he can without hanging out of the canopy.

“What’s next, then? The night is young.” Nessie flashes him a memory of himself, laid out, flushed, writhing against his hands. Fingertips bruising the thin skin over his hip bones.

“Christ,” says Niall. “You’ll be the death of me.  Think we’ve got a few weeks until that’s back on the agenda.” In the middle of the boat, he’s too far away to touch her, so he reaches for their book, instead. “Come on, let’s see what Aureliano Segundo and Fernanda are up to. Know it’s a poor substitution, but...” It’s taken a long time to read it, but it’s been lovely - he has to stop to explain things or pull up pictures or videos on his phone; on the other hand, she illustrates the book for him, broadcasting the scenes as he reads.  _“It rained for four years, eleven months, and two days.  There were periods of drizzling during which everyone put on his full dress and a convalescent look…”_

He looks up when the drumming on the canopy slows. Nessie makes a low, delighted sound. The rain has turned to snow, thick and soft, tumbling through the air around them.  

 

**~~~**

“Day 84,” Bressie groans against his mouth.  “The longest fooking 28 days of me life.”

“29.53 days, actually,” Niall says, sparks alive and pouring through his veins.  He’s so glad that Bressie’s naked already; it’s really convenient, when it comes down to it.

“Can think of better things to do with that mouth,” Bressie says, sliding his hands under Niall’s arse and picking him up.  And Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, he likes that more than he thought he would. He crushes their mouths together and the slick slide of their tongues is too much, he thinks he’s going to lose it and his pants aren’t even off yet.  But maybe that’s part of Bressie’s magic, too, because it feels like he just blinks and gasps, and then they’re in the tent and he’s naked. He could write a whole report on the feeling of Bressie’s bare body pressed against him, inside him, each inch distinct and electric.

“Missed you,” Niall says, kissing his collarbone.  “Missed this.” Bressie pulls back a little, sitting up farther on his knees to change the angle, and then Niall doesn’t think he could talk if he tried.

...

“Is it always like this?”  Niall asks, voice tentative in the darkness of the tent. Within the nylon walls, almost anything seems possible.

“Hmmm?”  Bressie pulls his head in to snuggle a little more firmly against his shoulder, settling back.

“With your...lovers, I mean.  Like, sometimes I feel - just. Like I can’t,” he stops for a second, gathering himself. He has the worst impulse to bury his face in Bressie’s shoulder; it’s so fucking dark there’s no way Bressie can see it, anyway.  “Like I can’t get enough,” he finally says. “Like it’s never enough.” Then Bressie’s fingers are on his chin, lifting his face up for a kiss; it’s rough and sweet in equal measure. He pulls back after a long time, hunches down to put his forehead against Niall’s as he answers the question.

“Couldn’t rightly tell ye.  It’s been many hundred summers that it’s been more than just sex for me. And even then there’s not...there’s never been anyone like ye, before.” Niall can feel him swallow; he waits for more, but Bressie goes quiet.

“Tell me something,” Niall says, threading his hands into the hair at the back of Bressie’s neck. “About you, I mean.” Bressie sighs and shifts off of him, but pulls him in close to his side.

“There’s a story me ma used to tell, about how I was made,” he says, running his fingers up and down Niall’s arm. “Guess she was what we’d call a witch, these days. But back then, she was just a woman who lived in the forest; strange, but folk mostly left her alone, unless they needed healing or helping of one kind or another. The way she told it to me, she was down by the loch, digging for roots and bits of shell. And there by the shore, she found a piece of bone.” Niall can feel him start to shrug, the muscles gathering and relaxing under his cheekbone. “Black and worn, not like anything she’d seen before, she said.  So she took it home, and kept it for a while, wondering. And one night, she woke up, and knew what to do.”

“What did she do?” Niall asks; he’s so full of conflicting feelings - awe, pity, curiosity, love - he thinks he might explode.

“Well, she magicked it. Dunno how, I’m no witch. And the bone grew, and here I am.”

He’s quiet for a long time, not knowing what to say. If he didn’t know better, he’d think Bressie fell asleep. Finally, he runs his hand down Bressie’s torso, the smooth lines and ridges of muscle there, all the way down to the top of his thighs.

“Story of my life,” he says, leaning in to nip at Bressie’s collar bone, “falling for a bone.” Bressie snorts with laughter - Nessie’s quiet wheezing kind - bringing Niall’s hand down the rest of the way.

“Now that’s a story I’d like to hear.”

 

**~~~**

Six days later Niall gets the email: the sonar images are not enough to sustain the assignment. If he can’t produce any evidence, they’re pulling him off the project in two weeks. He thinks of all the proof he has - sound recordings, videos, photos, real sonar, the taste and feel of Bressie in his mouth. He can’t give it to them.

It’ll be weeks - 23 days, give or take - before he can tell Bressie properly, actually talk about it, which is confusing.  It’s an exceptional day for mid-December; the sun warms his face, glittering against the surface of the loch. He sits on the shore, skipping rocks across the surface while he thinks. It’s no good; he’ll not get anywhere until he talks to her.

As soon as the sky begins to darken, he steers the boat out to their usual meeting spot, his stomach a tangled mess of nerves and heartache. Nessie is a clear pale blue today, the winter sky’s more beautiful cousin. She slows when she gets close to the boat, like she can taste the tension rolling off of him in waves.

“Hello, love,” he says, reaching out for her. She drifts in the rest of the way, rubbing her cheek against his outstretched hand. “Afraid I’ve got some bad news.”

When he tells her, she’s furious, flushing dark orange and spitting images at him.  She wants him to do it; he sees himself taking more pictures, more sonar, pushing the button on his phone to send it in.

“I can’t, you don’t understand - your life will be ruined,” he waves his hand around, wildly, at the lake, the shore, the relative peace of the midwinter day. “This will all be ruined.”

She pushes back at him, pictures flying in fast and sharp. She’ll hide - she’s good at it. They’ll find a different loch. She’ll start eating anyone who gets too close.

“But for what?” Frustration rises in him like helium. “In 60 years I’ll be dead and you’ll keep living, have to keep on living with it.” That’s like a slap in the face. “What are we doing, anyway?” She backs up, suddenly, all the blue draining away; dull grey, she hovers on the water like a ghost. He swallows hard; he’s so afraid for her.

“Not...I didn’t mean it like that.” He shoves his hands into his pockets, suddenly cold. “I’ll come back, love. I just have to go sort things for a little while. I’m not leaving you.” But she bows her head, turning away from him slightly.  Starting to slip down into the water, she sends him two images in rapid succession. He sees himself: small and scared in his little boat, feeding her bacon with an incredulous smile. Then there’s no boat, no tent, just aching vacant shore. The pictures stop; she’s gone.

Niall boats back, alone and miserable, and starts preparing. How he sleeps, he’ll never know; but he does sleep, finally, fitfully. In the morning, there’s nothing on the shore waiting for him. He packs up everything belonging to the lab, loads the lorry, and starts the long drive back to civilization. He leaves the tent and sleeping bag rolled up, piled on the shore like a promise.

 

**~~~**

The day he returns is bitterly cold. He needs it; the stinging wind against his skin distracts him as he tows the boat down to the shoreline. He starts the motor, hands shaking - it’s smaller than the old boat, but has an actual sleeping chamber below deck - and steers it to the southwest edge of the loch. Then he sits and waits; the sun dips below the horizon like a messy egg. The loch is totally smooth, spread out before him in all directions. For the first time in a long time, its depth and darkness unsettles him. Nothing moves. The hair on the back of his neck stands up; it could be a draft, it could be nothing. He starts talking, anyway.

“Day 1,” he says, scanning the surface: no movement.  “I’m back for good, this time.” There’s no sign of response, so he decides to just keep talking. If that doesn’t work, flinging himself into the loch is a strong second option. “The job is finished. I did it, though - sold them what you wanted me to.” He pauses; did the boat rock a little? He may be losing his mind. **“** Had a friend help me with the details. You’ve been re-discovered at Loch Lomond by an enterprising young scientist. Handsome, as well. It’s a huge upset for cryptozoology. Hope they’re prepared for an unbelievable tourist season.” He feels the bubble of warmth before he can even see the lake begin to ripple, warming him from the feet up. “Hello, love.”  She’s still nowhere to be seen, but the boat starts moving across the water. He smiles so hard his face hurts.

“Did some research of me own, as well.  Figured if you can do this,” he waves his hand between them, even though she can’t see. “We can find a way to make me a ghost or something. You know, sixty years from now.” They’re flying across the water, now; the wind oddly warm on his back. “So you won’t have to be alone.” The boat stops so suddenly, he almost falls out of the seat. Then there’s Bressie, climbing into the boat, rolling over him like a wave.

“You’re back,” Bressie says, dripping wet, as he straddles him, fisting his hands tight in Niall’s hair.

“I’m back.”  And then their mouths are joined, and Niall lets all his worry fly up into the January sky. They’re right where they need to be, for now; fused together, lost in the moment. And it’s a fucking great moment, if he’s honest.

 

Notes:

[Tumblr post](https://dinoflangellate.tumblr.com/post/172867549873/theres-a-story-me-ma-used-to-tell-about-how-i)


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